Squish
by Ashe Romeo
Summary: Angela Orosco has been abused throughout her entire life, and everyone has a breaking point. Perhaps she too had a sin she could not recall, but unlike James, could not face her truth. Here is the real reason she came to Silent Hill. One-shot.


A/N/Disclaimer: I don't own Angela or her father, Konami does.

I actually got the idea for this fic from a theory presented by The Hellbound Heart's plot analysis for SH3 on The theory was that Angela killed her father, and that was her initial reasoning for coming to the town. She couldn't remember it, as James couldn't remember his sin, but unlike James, she chose death rather than face that truth.

Um…yeah. Enjoy….I think….

****

Squish

The bedroom was a battlefield. Its floor was littered with the corpses of stuffed animals and shattered dolls, cotton guts and razor-sharp shards of porcelain still launching their assaults upon unsuspecting, bare feet. The darkness was just beginning to swallow all evidence of the fray in a cleansing tide of shadow, but for now things were still visible, such as the unmade bed that hulked like a tank near the closet, and the record player across from it. Laughably enough, it still played; Glen Miller's _In The Mood _faintly audible under the sound of the wretched sobs emanating from the far right corner of the room.

Angela was curled into a ball, her back pressed firmly against where the two walls met as if it was her intent to sink into them and to cease existing. Her legs were drawn tightly up to her chest, and her head was bowed into her knees, mahogany strands of hair falling down to obscure her tearstained visage. Her dress had not torn this time, but it was rumpled and stained white in places. She was trembling violently, trying her hardest to muffle the sound of her weeping.

The door was opened ever so slightly, a thin shaft of light streaming through to pierce the shadows, and she could hear the television in the living room down the hall. She didn't want to listen to it, but the very thought of getting up and closing her door filled her with cold dread and terror. It didn't matter if he had probably accidentally left it open on his way out, after he had…finished. If he had by some off chance left it open on purpose, and she closed it…

Defying him was an inconceivable notion.

"Angela!"

She jumped as her name was called, her head snapping up from her knees. Shrinking back even further against the security of the corner, she stared mutely at the open door, her heart thrumming madly in her chest like some trapped hummingbird flitting about her ribcage, frantically searching for a way out.

"ANGELA! GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE, _NOW!"_

What could he want now? After what he had just done, what could he _possibly _want from her now? Rage rippled vaguely beneath her skin, but was not at all audible in the timid "Coming, daddy!" she called as she scrambled to her feet.

Stumbling over a teddy bear, she walked briskly towards the door, wrenching it open and starting immediately down the well-lit hallway. The shelf hanging on the right wall was stocked with framed photographs, and accidentally, she brushed one, causing it to fall face-forward. Gasping, she began to right it, but a third booming shout from her father in the living room ahead caused her to leave it how it was. She scurried down the rest of the hallway.

"Took you long enough," he grunted, not moving his eyes once from the television screen. He was a king sitting there on his armchair throne, a king with a baseball cap for a crown and a beer bottle for a scepter. His gut protruded grossly from behind his stained, white wife-beater robes, and a thick layer of stubble adorned his noble chin.

"Make me a cheeseburger," he said.

"Yes, daddy," she replied, immediately darting behind the armchair, across the living room to the kitchen. Her hands trembled slightly as she opened the freezer door, for now was one of those times when she walked a thin line. If she did well, praise was possible. If she did badly…

Doing well was already out of the picture. The freezer was absolutely empty. She opened the refrigerator door with the desperate hope that her mother had put the hamburger there to defrost, but such was not the case. There was a frozen chicken, five beer bottles, half a bottle of flat diet soda, a jar of pickles, and a carton of empty orange juice. No hamburger.

"There's no hamburger, daddy," she called weakly.

Silence.

"What?"

"There isn't any hamburger."

"Then make somethin' else! Jesus, Angela, are you that thick?"

"Sorry daddy," she said, immediately taking out the chicken and carrying it to the sink, peeling off the wrapper. She turned on the water and held the meat under it, grimacing as she reached inside and pulled out the giblets. After it was clean, she took it to the cutting board, removing the largest knife she could from the rack, sullenly beginning to carve.

Movement from the living room. Creaking as he rose from the armchair, thunderous footfalls as he made his way to the kitchen. The refrigerator hummed obediently as he opened it, she heard the beer bottles clinking musically as he removed one from the cardboard. She heard him open it, but did not hear him leave. He was standing there, oh _God, _he was _standing there, _why? What had she done? _What had she done?_

"The hell's taking you so long?" he snapped.

"I have to carve it," she said, and immediately regretted her words, mentally chastising herself. Why couldn't she have just said "Sorry, daddy," and put the damn thing in the oven!

The air grew heavier with his rage. It was only a subtle difference, but Angela noticed it.

"You talking wise to me, girl?"

She stiffened, her hand tightening around the handle of the knife.

"No, daddy," she nearly whispered.

"Turn around. Look at me. I said _look at me!_"

She obeyed mechanically, without giving the command a second thought. Almost as soon as she was facing him, he struck her hard with the back of his hand. Pain blossomed on her lower lip. The skin broke. Blood ran. Staggering backwards, she raised her hand up weakly to her face.

"Daddy, I'm sorry. Please don't, daddy, I won't do it again, I'll be good, I-"

Her words were cut off by another blow, this one close-fisted, striking her left eye. Instantly, the area began to swell and to bruise. She cried out and again began to sob and whimper.

"SHUT UP!" he roared, striking her in the cheek again and again. "SHUT UP, YOU WORTHLESS _BITCH! _IF YOU DON'T SHUT THE FUCK _UP _I'LL _KILL _YOU, DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME! I'LL FUCKING _KILL _YOU!"

Angela did not stop whimpering, she couldn't, but neither did she struggle to comply. Fear and rage had somehow simultaneously seized her mind.

"STOP IT!" she shrieked, raising her arms helplessly against the blows. "STOP IT, DADDY, STOP IT!"

The knife she had used to carve the chicken was still in her hands.

It was a strange realization, but nonetheless a realization.

He continued to bellow and to strike her, to rain blows upon her head and shoulders, and he was so _loud, _God, why was he so fucking _loud, _couldn't _he _shut up, for once in his life couldn't _he _shut the fuck up and _stop it?_

With a loud, high, wordless shriek, Angela drove the blade right into her father's protruding stomach.

He stopped yelling, but he stared at her, stared at her with that rage still in his eyes. She wanted it to go away. She never wanted anything more badly in her life than for that rage to go away.

The knife squished as she pulled it out. Squished again as she drove it in again, this time up near his side, through his lung, though she didn't know it.

He was still staring at her.

The blade came out again, then back in. Out again. In again. Blood swelling and spilling, swelling, and spilling.

__

She was five years old, and he had taken her to the amusement park, lifted her high on his shoulders, laughing, that joyous memory preserved only in a photograph now fallen over on a shelf in the hall…

Out again. In again. Someone screaming mad, banshee-like screams…that wasn't her, was it?

__

Oppressive heat. She couldn't breathe, he was crushing her, she was crying, screaming, she was the mortar, he was the pestle, she was suffocating, drowning, and bleeding to death, all at the same time…

Out again. In again. Out again. In again. The blood, the blood, so much blood. It was everywhere, thick, sticky crimson, did it _always _reek of death? He was making gasping, gurgling sounds in his throat, and oh God it was coming out his mouth, too, why wouldn't he shut up? In again, in his throat. He stopped. He wasn't yelling anymore wasn't hitting her or making noise, just _bleeding, _so much blood, so much fucking _blood…_

"Mama…" she whimpered, though Mama wasn't home, wouldn't _be _home for hours.

"Mama…I'm sorry…I'm so sorry…I've been bad, Mama, I'm _sorry…"_

****

End


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